I'd give pot a thumbs-up over whiskey

Bruce BensonColumnist

Published: Saturday, July 27, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, July 26, 2013 at 9:29 a.m.

It gets pretty lonely here at the fish plant. Fishing is over now, and I have a few details to look after before I return to Hendersonville. To keep myself company at night, I leave the television set on. I choose random stations. I just want to hear the sound of human voices more than anything.

I've been alone, lonely, a lot in my life, and I don't wish it on anybody. We are gregarious creatures, and we need the company of others.

It's something to keep in mind when we see homeless people. A smile, a short chat, an acknowledgement that they're human, can go a long way. I remember seeing my then-girlfriend/now-wife taking the time to talk to a homeless woman crying on the street to make sure she was OK. I fell in love.

A few nights ago, I awoke in the middle of the night, and the 1936 documentary, "Reefer Madness," was playing. Originally titled "Tell Your Children" and intended to warn of the evils of marijuana, it's nothing short of hilarious.

It begins with the message: a violent narcotic, an unspeakable scourge, the real Public Enemy No. 1. Its effect is sudden, violent, uncontrollable laughter. Then come dangerous hallucinations. Space expands and time slows down. Fixed ideas come next, conjuring up monstrous extravaganzas, followed by emotional disturbances, the total inability to direct thoughts, the loss of all power to resist physical emotions — leading finally to acts of shocking violence — and ending often in incurable insanity.

Makes me wonder just what they were smoking.

The movie follows a cast of characters that, due to the effects of pot, end up involved in horrible situations, including manslaughter.

"Don't do a column on pot," my friend Ryan warned me. "They'll label you a left-wing, pot-smoking commie." Or something to that effect. But my self-censure button isn't working today.

I will admit that, in my youth (which seems to have fled too fast), I did try smoking dope, marijuana. And unlike Bill Clinton, I will also admit that I inhaled it.

Some of my critics might say this is an admission of, or explanation for, my madness. But I'm not insane. There have been, at least to my understanding and belief, no ill effects from my youthful indiscretions. And to be honest, I have witnessed little of the effects the documentary "Reefer Madness" warns about in others. But I have seen whiskey do an incredible amount of damage.

I was the only white man in an Indian fishing camp for five seasons. I never had any trouble despite warnings from fearful people that I would be killed. But I had to be careful.

Some of the boys liked their booze, and being friendly and gregarious, as we humans generally are, they would invite me to drink with them. To say no would be tantamount to declaring my superiority, so I would join them for a while. Besides, I was lonely and welcomed the company.

These were truly rough men. Though friendly, they were ready in a moment's notice to be physically violent. In fact, usually my pearly whites were the only full set of teeth in the room. I had to be careful, and in short order I came up with rules for myself as to when I would sit down and join them, and when I wouldn't.

If I came into a fish camp and the boys were drinking beer, I would probably be OK. If they were drinking beer and smoking dope, I knew I would be OK. If they were drinking whiskey and smoking pot, I would most likely be all right. But if I came in and they were drinking whiskey and I couldn't smell pot in the air, I got the heck outta there! I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone would ask the pre-emptive question, "Hey white man, are you tough?" The inevitable scene to follow would most likely see me lose a few of those pearly whites I mentioned earlier, at the very least.

Anyone 21 or older can buy an infinite amount of whiskey, but pot is still illegal. Great strides have been made by the pro-pot people, and I am not one of them. Though I see nothing, really, against it. The benefits of medical marijuana for many ailments, particularly cancer, are now well known. But there are negatives as well.

However, the benefits of whiskey compared to the downside is a different story.

In my humble opinion, nobody would smoke a joint and then go kill the ex-wife. But downing a big bottle of whiskey might be the prelude to such an act. Nobody can smoke himself to death in an evening, but he can drink whiskey to death in less than an hour. Every year, I hear of teens experimenting with whiskey and dying of alcohol poisoning. Not just whiskey, of course — all hard alcohol can kill.

I have witnessed countless violent confrontations brought on by drinking whiskey, but none, dear reader, from pot smokers high on that unspeakable scourge.

Though my pot-smoking adolescence is far behind me, I think North Carolina should follow other states and legalize marijuana (and tax the heck out of it). If not, then make whiskey illegal. It's far worse.

Me, I'll stick to my beer. Ahhhh, beer!

Bruce Benson is a Canadian writer and journalist who makes Hendersonville his home. Reach him at bensonusa@ hotmail.com.

<p>It gets pretty lonely here at the fish plant. Fishing is over now, and I have a few details to look after before I return to Hendersonville. To keep myself company at night, I leave the television set on. I choose random stations. I just want to hear the sound of human voices more than anything.</p><p>I've been alone, lonely, a lot in my life, and I don't wish it on anybody. We are gregarious creatures, and we need the company of others.</p><p>It's something to keep in mind when we see homeless people. A smile, a short chat, an acknowledgement that they're human, can go a long way. I remember seeing my then-girlfriend/now-wife taking the time to talk to a homeless woman crying on the street to make sure she was OK. I fell in love.</p><p>A few nights ago, I awoke in the middle of the night, and the 1936 documentary, "Reefer Madness," was playing. Originally titled "Tell Your Children" and intended to warn of the evils of marijuana, it's nothing short of hilarious.</p><p>It begins with the message: a violent narcotic, an unspeakable scourge, the real Public Enemy No. 1. Its effect is sudden, violent, uncontrollable laughter. Then come dangerous hallucinations. Space expands and time slows down. Fixed ideas come next, conjuring up monstrous extravaganzas, followed by emotional disturbances, the total inability to direct thoughts, the loss of all power to resist physical emotions — leading finally to acts of shocking violence — and ending often in incurable insanity.</p><p>Makes me wonder just what they were smoking.</p><p>The movie follows a cast of characters that, due to the effects of pot, end up involved in horrible situations, including manslaughter.</p><p>"Don't do a column on pot," my friend Ryan warned me. "They'll label you a left-wing, pot-smoking commie." Or something to that effect. But my self-censure button isn't working today.</p><p>I will admit that, in my youth (which seems to have fled too fast), I did try smoking dope, marijuana. And unlike Bill Clinton, I will also admit that I inhaled it. </p><p>Some of my critics might say this is an admission of, or explanation for, my madness. But I'm not insane. There have been, at least to my understanding and belief, no ill effects from my youthful indiscretions. And to be honest, I have witnessed little of the effects the documentary "Reefer Madness" warns about in others. But I have seen whiskey do an incredible amount of damage.</p><p>I was the only white man in an Indian fishing camp for five seasons. I never had any trouble despite warnings from fearful people that I would be killed. But I had to be careful.</p><p>Some of the boys liked their booze, and being friendly and gregarious, as we humans generally are, they would invite me to drink with them. To say no would be tantamount to declaring my superiority, so I would join them for a while. Besides, I was lonely and welcomed the company.</p><p>These were truly rough men. Though friendly, they were ready in a moment's notice to be physically violent. In fact, usually my pearly whites were the only full set of teeth in the room. I had to be careful, and in short order I came up with rules for myself as to when I would sit down and join them, and when I wouldn't.</p><p>If I came into a fish camp and the boys were drinking beer, I would probably be OK. If they were drinking beer and smoking dope, I knew I would be OK. If they were drinking whiskey and smoking pot, I would most likely be all right. But if I came in and they were drinking whiskey and I couldn't smell pot in the air, I got the heck outta there! I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone would ask the pre-emptive question, "Hey white man, are you tough?" The inevitable scene to follow would most likely see me lose a few of those pearly whites I mentioned earlier, at the very least.</p><p>Anyone 21 or older can buy an infinite amount of whiskey, but pot is still illegal. Great strides have been made by the pro-pot people, and I am not one of them. Though I see nothing, really, against it. The benefits of medical marijuana for many ailments, particularly cancer, are now well known. But there are negatives as well.</p><p>However, the benefits of whiskey compared to the downside is a different story.</p><p>In my humble opinion, nobody would smoke a joint and then go kill the ex-wife. But downing a big bottle of whiskey might be the prelude to such an act. Nobody can smoke himself to death in an evening, but he can drink whiskey to death in less than an hour. Every year, I hear of teens experimenting with whiskey and dying of alcohol poisoning. Not just whiskey, of course — all hard alcohol can kill.</p><p>I have witnessed countless violent confrontations brought on by drinking whiskey, but none, dear reader, from pot smokers high on that unspeakable scourge.</p><p>Though my pot-smoking adolescence is far behind me, I think North Carolina should follow other states and legalize marijuana (and tax the heck out of it). If not, then make whiskey illegal. It's far worse.</p><p>Me, I'll stick to my beer. Ahhhh, beer!</p><p>Bruce Benson is a Canadian writer and journalist who makes Hendersonville his home. Reach him at bensonusa@ hotmail.com.</p>